Thursday, July 29, 2010

"It's holy work and it's dangerous not to know that 'cause you could die like an animal down here." --Abbey Lincoln

Longing prolongs it That jazz at the coreThe beats that did not make us oneFret totality

Syncopate beneath the breathWhat we would notBe called into beingOr see ourselves

In the screen test dreaming The work that is being Done just to meet you Undoes this with a kiss

With no greater aim do I insistA waste burn up the sunFrom whichever oneOf our distances sites

A music of those shadesWhat they discuss nothing like usNo resemblance to The things we will have been.

If belief were true What is left would be a visible Show of emotionA sign therefore standing in For how the music feelsOr birds within a chorusSomething or other improvisationOf our being not adding up.

Difference makes us super thinBuilt worlds make us strongBeing would make us speakA million greetings not ours

A feeling for the things gone out The shores the skin withoutEnd we may have beenA feeling fading to grief

When our figures won’t begin To tell their work of mourning hereNo future is foreclosedOr ring of rosy squared

Profaning the future’s beautyThe past from where it leaksLike stars leak this lightDelayed by all they’ve been.

Because one breathes A politics to comeWithers administered worlds Mutes them with its song

The roof is on fireBut so is your headThe roof is on fire So why don’t we blow

No message in thisExcept what we believe enough to say itThe spirit you blowThe bodies which blow it